A Still Life

The thunderstorm last night scattered the entire ground with puddles, soggy leaves, and branches. The neighborhood is quiet, no one in sight. I’ve been camping out in the bay window and staring out into the street for a large chunk go the morning. I usually have work today but my boss told me to take a “sick day” and I made no plans. I didn't have anyone to make plans with and I don't need much anymore. Looking out the window was enough for me.

The door to the large white and green house across the street flew open. Two boys and a young girl, wearing their boots, hats and jackets race down the steps, smiling and giggling. The girl is about six years old and only three feet tall. In comparison, the boys were giants: six feet tall and in their teens. The boys each grab a long branch from the ground and chase the girl with it. The girl is running around, shrieking and giggling as if  being chased with sticks is fun.

Somebody is pounding on the door. I open it to find my sister Anna carrying crates full of food and supplies she most likely picked up from the supermarket on the way here. She slams the door, drops the crates on the floor, and gasps for water. “What in God’s name, Mavis? You couldn’t have helped?” I guess she wanted me to help carry the crates before. I give her the water and start walking backing to the bay window. I sat down when I felt Anna staring at me. 

“Stop it,” she says.

“Stop what?” I say, turning my head to watch the children outside.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Anna says, seething, “this goddamn attitude of yours!”

 I pressed my face against the cool glass on the window. 

“Look at you! You're dead! You barely get out of the house, which is in terrible shape now, and you barely talk to people anymore. You just shut yourself up in that window and stare out. You look so creepy!”

I pull my face away from the window and look Anna in the eyes. “You're wrong. I go out when I need to and that's that. I don't need to go out and hang around like you. I work, I I shop, and I start over again. That's all I need."

Anna shuts up goes on mumbling to her self, fixing the crates. She sounds even more angry. I wasn't mad at her. I was just frustrated that I had to keep telling her this over and over again. You would think she would have gotten it by now since she comes over nearly every day. 

I feel a sharp pang in my head and realize that I hadn't drank my coffee for day. I drag myself into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. The coffee is burning my tongue until I see Anna come, bursting into the kitchen from the attic staircase. She doesn't even give me time to put my coffee down as she clutches my arms and drags me into the attic. 

I’m never just left alone the way I ask. 

When we get there she starts talking about my life and "what it could have been". She’s like that overly concerned and desperate mom with the way she talks. Anna was up and at it, moving around the entire left-side of the attic, pointing at one painting after another. She was saying stuff about how the paintings were beautiful and showed so much promise. But what does she know about painting? Then she starts running over to  the right side and points to to the painting that's half complete. She looks like she's going to cry. She slows down and picks up the neatly-stacked jars on one side and grazes her hand against the soft bristles of the paintbrushes inside one of the jars. I remember how comforting that feeling was. 

She comes over to me and looks me square in the eye as if she's trying to make me feel what she feels. But why other? Why pretend? Why care when you know that you can't what you want? Of when you know that it won't ever happen?

 I'm not sad. I just am.

She grabs my shoulders and sobs. This is unnecessary.

I move my shoulders and loosen the grip of her hands on them. I go down stairs with coffee in my hand and sit back down in the bay window. The boys were jumping in the muddy puddles and getting the girl dirty. I heard Anna's soft sobs and gasps of air behind me, watching. 

I don't care.